


Sneak Attack

by wneleh



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wneleh/pseuds/wneleh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His tongue and the sides of his mouth were pressing against the sock almost of their own accord. Ah, the gag reflex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sneak Attack

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a million years ago, then took it off my site because, well. But I'm trying for completeness here, so.

(In which the author tried her hand at h/c for the first time.)

_Takes place third season, say right after "Fool Me Twice" (a pretty nice episode.)_

Jim was going to kill him. Well, if his feet didn't first.

Blair Sandburg finally found a space for the Volvo a good three blocks from Phil's Diner, then felt in his pocket for quarters. Nuts. Should he drive another block out from the small commercial district, to where there were unmetered spaces? Or check under the seat... great, two quarters, enough for an hour. Another two minutes gone. Jim really was going to kill him. Thirty minutes late. Sheesh. And he didn't even have a great excuse this time.

He swung out of the car, wincing as the impact of the sidewalk caused the 10 magenta lights on each of his size 8 navy-and-white Humy Ultrasport Glowjobs to wink frantically. Personally, he thought that "blinky" shoes were cute on four-year-olds (and several had informed him the proper term was "blinky", in the few hours he'd been breaking them in), but that they should be illegal for adults.

Not that Sneaks cared too much about legality. Or that the lightly-worn-in Glowjobs he'd insisted as pay for his tip of the week were a half-size too small for Blair.

He'd jogged a block toward the Diner, hoping Jim and Sneaks were still having their late lunch meet, when he heard a man's voice call, "Hey, Sneaks, nice treads."

Blair paused and looked around. Sneaks? Where? Had the snitch walked when Blair (and, probably more importantly, the Glowjobs) hadn't shown? Could Blair still salvage things?

"I said, nice treads." The voice turned out to belong to a stocky but fit-looking white guy about his age who was leaning against a black conversion van.

Immediately, Blair realized that stopping had been a mistake, that indicating that the word "Sneaks" meant anything to him probably wasn't the smartest thing he could have done. "I don't know what you're talking about..."

"Sure you do, Sneaks," said the guy. "Those are the shoes you said you'd be wearing. Not too many of those on the street, man. Just hop in the van. We can't talk here."

"I'm not Sneaks... uh, what's a 'sneaks'" said Blair, backing up.

"Yeah, right," said the guy, now flanked by a pair of larger goons. "You can't back out just like that, man. You've seen my face, you've seen enough. "

Not for the first time, Blair wondered what it was about him, or Cascade, that made his being grabbed and stuffed, struggling, into a vehicle so easy.

A few minutes later, the van doors opened and Goon One pushed him into the loading area of a warehouse. A few yards away, the garage door was still open - a good sign that the intentions of his captures weren't purely murderous.

Blair had his spiel ready this time. "Guys, Donny sent you, didn't he? We're heading to a strip club now, right? I knew he'd go all out for my bachelor party, but this is, like, EXTREME, man!"

"Sneaks, I don't know what game you're playing..."

"Man, you guys must be talking about my shoes. Gladys gave them to me this morning and made me wear them. So she's in on this prank too? What a girl."

The guy who'd originally approached him, who Blair had dubbed 'Boss Man', glanced around, as if trying to determine whether there was anything obvious which would let Blair identify the location. Or, at least, that's what Blair hoped he was doing. Blair concentrated on NOT looking around, on seeming as disengaged from his surroundings as possible.

"I know," said Blair, hoping to speed things up a bit. "You think maybe you grabbed the wrong guy? Maybe you were supposed to cart some other guy to his bachelor party? You think maybe you could just take me back to Dean Street?"

"Enough with the bachelor party already!" said Boss Man, and Blair realized he'd pushed too hard, too fast. Stupid!

"Larry, on my desk there's a green folder. Fetch it for me, won'tcha?" asked Boss Man.

On the other hand, the thug was polite to his underlings - that was a good sign.

Goon Two trotted back a moment later with a photo. Boss Man and Goon One glanced at it. "I don't know..." said Goon One.

"Sure, that's him," said Boss Man.

"Hey, let me see," said Blair, stepping over to join them. They were staring at an enlargement of a bad picture of Sneaks sitting in a lawn chair wearing a baseball cap, balancing a loaded paper plate in this lap and taking a swig from a bottle. Small-time hoods had barbecues? "That's the guy you're looking for? Never seen him."

"Except when you shave," said Boss Man.

"No way! He's, like, a decade older than me!"

"It's just the angle," said Goon One.

"And the lighting's different," said Goon Two.

"And those ridiculous side burns you've got now. They completely change the shape of your face," said Boss Man. He sighed. "Listen, Sneaks, we didn't come all this way to NOT do business with someone here. You're more of a nut case than we thought, but maybe... yeah, I think maybe if you cool off for a while you'll be more reasonable. If not..."

"Wait! Check my I.D.!"

"Whatcha saying, the DMV doesn't call you 'Sneaks'?"

"Back closet in the basement?" asked Goon One.

"Yeah, that'll do. Make sure he's not too comfortable," said Boss Man.

If only he'd tried for the open garage door instead of taking a look at the photo!

The goons escorted him firmly out of the garage area, down a flight of stairs, and along a hall and to a moderately large closet. Along the way, Goon One acquired a metal folding chair.

"This is a huge mistake," said Blair. "Someone's gonna notice I'm missing. Or is this a part of the joke? It's not funny any more if it is."

"You think he's a yeller?" Goon One asked Goon Two.

"Dollars to deadbolts," replied Good Two.

Yelling. What an idea. "Hey, someone! Anyone! HELP!" Blair shouted as Goon Two forced him down into the chair.

Goon One backhanded him, hard. "Sneaks, you are too damn much trouble. Ern, give me one of your socks."

"In a sec..." said Goon Two as he brandished a roll of packing tape and pulled Blair's right arm back. He taped it to the back support of the chair, then repeated the procedure to secure his left arm. He then taped Blair's lower legs together, Goon One continuing to keep him pinned. "Around his thighs?"

"Yeah, that'll work," said Goon One. Goon Two wrapped the tape around the bottom of the seat and across Blair's lap several times. "And around his torso too."

Goon Two then removed a shoe and sock. "Open up, Sneaks," he said. Blair swerved his head side to side, trying not to make things too easy, trying to at least dissuade them from putting a gag into his mouth. Another whack from Goon One dazed him momentarily, though, allowing Goon Two to stuff some of the foot of his sock into Blair's mouth. Goon One took the tape and rapidly wrapped it tightly around Blair's head.

Stepping back, Goon One appraised him suspiciously. "Sneaks, listen up. My boss doesn't want a murder rap to hang over us in Cascade, but you're sure a temptation. I don't work with head cases. So, when we get back, you'd better drop the attitude. Comprehende'?"

On the way out, they switched out the light.

Damn, damn, damn! Good thing he was an old pro at this. Else, being tied to a chair with a filthy, reeking sock in his mouth would really be freaking him out.

His tongue and the sides of his mouth were pressing against the sock almost of their own accord. Ah, the gag reflex. And here he'd always thought that the gag reflex referred to what happened when a doc took a culture for a strep test.

The contents of Blair's stomach threatened to want to join in the fun - and that would be bad. Very, very bad. Blair focused all of his attention on breathing through his nose slowly and deeply. Cautiously, he experimented with letting his tongue press against the sock, but that only seemed to encourage the rest of the local muscles. No, what worked best was squeezing in the sides of his mouth a bit and letting - forcing - his tongue to relax.

Now, to get the hell out. He tapped his feet on the floor to make the Glowjobs blink, but they didn't produce enough light to see the doorknob. Anyway, why would a closet lock from the inside?

Blair rotated forward, trying to put his weight on his bound legs - Yes, he could stand! A couple of hops forward... with a thump, his head hit something. Blair had thought he was heading directly toward the door, but a bang several feet to his right told him he'd been a little off.

"Sneaks, STAY PUT!" called Goon One's voice. "Do you WANT us to put a bullet in your brain?"

Blair managed to get the chair back onto the floor without toppling over, annoyed with himself for not thinking to wait a few minutes. It was just that he really, really, REALLY wanted out.

Think, think - and suddenly, it occurred to him that there was no reason he COULDN'T be Sneaks, at least for long enough to get away from the goons. He just had to get their attention... he rocked back and forth, banging the legs of the chair on the floor.

"I SAID, SHUT UP!" yelled Good One.

Okay, so it might take a while. But he'd be ready. He just had to keep breathing.

\- - - - - -

Blair was going to kill him.

When his partner hadn't shown up at Phil's Diner, Jim hadn't been too surprised. The kid had had a lot on his plate this past week, and the Glowjobs had been a potential final straw, Jim had known from the beginning. Still, Blair had stomped off in them this morning, despite complaining that they hurt, that they would ruin his chances of getting a date the rest of the millennium. Jim had made some clever comment about, oh, how had he phrased it? About what would Blair be doing with a co-ed, when his last girlfriend had been on the short list for the last Nobel Peace Prize? And Blair had said something about how woman students weren't called co-eds anymore, and Genevieve hadn't been a girlfriend, and, besides, just being nominated for a Nobel Prize didn't put you on the short list blah blah blah.

Sneaks had been livid when Blair'd been a no-show, though. Had stomped off after waiting an hour, no tip-of-the-week, saying that the PD had just blown a major opportunity.

Jim had returned to the station, not thinking anything of it really, when a call had come in from Ken Taylor, a beat cop they played pickup basketball with on Thursday evenings. Seems he'd just observed a meter reader starting to give Sandburg's Volvo a ticket, and he was wondering whether he should just stop her or let the kid sort it out himself (assuming Blair had been in the neighborhood on police business, of course, wink wink).

Jim had felt as if a hand had reached in and squeezed his heart. "Catch her NOW, Taylor, and see if she knows how long the car's been there." There was a chance - a hope - that the kid had just been, what, almost two hours late, and had parked and, having no change, hadn't fed the meter. Not that any of that felt like Sandburg.

A minute later, Taylor called back. The Volvo had been there for a while, according to the meter reader. She'd noticed it before the meter expired, because of the headquarters parking permit on the bumper and because she liked cars of its vintage, was looking for one for her son in fact.

This all meant that Blair Sandburg had been missing for up to two hours. And, three years of experience meant that a missing Blair Sandburg was a grad student in deep shit, in desperate need of - what? - deshitting seemed a good, all-encompassing term. And Jim had just been sitting at his desk, doing paper work and feeling just a bit miffed at the kid for blowing him off. Yeah, he, Jim Ellison, was a dead man. Jim hoped.

A moment later, he had Sneaks on the line. With a bit of pressure, and the promise of both the Glowjobs and some Nikes, he extracted that Sneaks had planned on hooking up with some drug manufacturers from out of town - purely to help out the PD, of course - and he'd wanted the Glows as a form of I.D. After Blair hadn't shown with the shoes, though, Sneaks had taken a chance on a cell number he thought might the out-of-towners', and things were now copacetic. Well, except for the fact that they'd nabbed some other guy by accident, wasn't that funny?

The promise of a second pair of Nikes got the phone number from Sneaks (which nobody answered when Jim called) and got Sneaks working on trying to find out where the out-of-towners were based.

Sneaks' next message was short. "Some warehouse near Common and 65th Street. That's all I got."

With that, Jim was off.

\- - - - - - -

He must have fallen asleep. He was stiff, and the sock in his mouth was soaked. Why the hell was he still in the room? Why hadn't they let him out?

Blair's earlier expectation that relief was eminent was replaced, for an instant, by panic, and for a frantic moment his tongue and cheeks pressed against the sock, making him feel sick.

Breathe, he told himself. That's still all you have to do.

Good thing he didn't have a concussion from the struggle during his abduction. Concussions meant barfing, and barfing now would be a really bad idea.

Was the room moving, maybe? Yeah, there was a definite sway going down. Sort of nice. Like being in a cradle. Blair closed his eyes. Just go with it... yeah, that wasn't so bad...

Okay, just don't puke. That's all. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. Let the damn sock keep soaking up the spit.

Shouldn't someone have noticed he was missing by now? Where the hell was Jim?

Now his left nostril was starting to itch. Which was a good thing, really; you couldn't worry about doing a Jimi Hendrix when you were trying to manipulate nose muscles.

Maybe if he just sneezed...

He inhaled deeply several times, then blew out as hard as he could. The itch dissipated, but now his right nostril was partially blocked. He sniffed out frantically several times, then found himself needing to suck in more air. He tried to breathe around the sock - and now, it was further in and he was choking on it and coughing and trying to push the sock out with his tongue.

He was going to puke.

There was bitter bile in his throat, coating his tongue, and he swallowed convulsively and tried to blow out as hard as he could though his nose. Air still flowed - if he could keep breathing, he would be fine no matter what, right? Now his mouth was full of spit and his eyes were tearing and his nose - no, not now! His nose was starting to fill with snot. A normal enough reaction to foreign matter, the body's defense, probably not even an allergic reaction per se, but it was going to kill him. He blew out hard again and again, sucking in as much air as he could between blows.

The world took a dip, and Blair felt a mass rising from his stomach and burning his throat. Foul-tasting matter filled his mouth and, stopped by the gag, traveled into the back of his nose. He blew, leaning forward against his restraints as far as he could to help force air out of his lungs, but it wasn't working. As hard as he'd worked on breathing in earlier, he now concentrated solely on snorting out.

And he vomited again.

Now he rocked the chair frantically, to try to loose his bonds, to try to clear his nose. He hardly noticed the fall when it happened.

A matter of seconds later, a voice - Jim's! - called to him from the other side of the door.

Blair had landed on his side, still facing the door. He thrashed, banging the chair against the floor, more his body's frantic attempt to somehow take in oxygen than to let help know where he was.

\- - - - - -

There were maybe a dozen warehouses near Commons and 65th, depending on how you defined "near". They didn't bother checking out the buildings closest to the intersection; they were moderate-sized structures with only one or two tenants, and even a cursory glance showed then to be reasonably busy. Not the sort of place you'd set up a drug lab.

A couple hundred yards to the east, though, sat a cluster of smaller structures that looked like they'd fallen on hard times. A sign at the beginning of the access road gave the name of an off-site landlord and a phone number; when called, the receptionist said that she really couldn't help them, her boss was out of town, anand didn't they need a warrant or something? While Simon tried to bellow reason into the receptionist's head, Jim told the officers in the two black-and-whites accompanying them to stay put, and jogged up the road a few yards. Some of the weeds growing in the cracks in the asphalt leading up to 6506 Commons had been crushed - bingo.

Two minutes later, they burst the front door down. While the others looked for Sneaks' contacts (who Jim suspected were long gone), Jim extended his hearing. Yes, there was a heartbeat, going way too fast.

And then, there was a crash. Where from? "Blair! Where are you?" Jim yelled. There was more noise, coming from - yes! - the basement. Jim rushed down the stairs and snapped on the lights, revealing a large, empty room, but no Sandburg. Glancing quickly around, he spotted a kitchenette and, next to it, what looked like a closet door.

In an instant, Jim swung the door open, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dark. Blair was on the floor, gagged with duct tape and tied to a chair. "Blair, are you okay?"

Desperate, tearing eyes locked with his, and opaque liquid was dribbling out past the gag.

Oh, shit.

A quick tug at the tape showed that removing it that way would take more time than Blair had. Jim instead took out his knife and cut through the tape where it crushed Blair's hair. With a yank that had to be excruciating, the tape was off. Something white and red - an athletic sock - was blocking Blair's mouth, and Jim pulled it out. Vomit came with it, first what was already in Blair's mouth, then, with a retch from Blair, a torrent more. Blair then sucked in air greedily, desperately, like a fish on a dock.

Satisfied for the moment that Blair was able to breathe, Jim turned his attention to the tape binding Blair's arms, torso, and, finally, feet, to the chair. He then pulled Blair, still gasping, away from the chair and up against him.

Simon filled the doorway. "Sandburg! Jim, is he all right? The paramedics are on their way."

"I don't know yet," said Jim. "Could you fetch some water and a towel or something?"

Nodding, Simon said, "I'll be right back," and left.

In Jim's arms, Blair shook and gasped. "Easy, easy, you're all right, Chief," Jim said. "You're just shaky from being sick. You're okay."

Blair nodded, but his staccato heartbeat still seemed more avian than human. "Oh God," he said. "Oh Jim..." He started to cough, shallow at first, then deeper. Jim tilted Blair forward, bracing him with his left hand as he struck his back several times with his right hand. The impacts seemed to help, giving Blair's coughs extra force.

After maybe a minute, Blair was again gasping. "Can't, can't get enough air!"

"Yes you can, Chief, you're doing fine," said Jim.

And now Blair was swallowing convulsively, then retching. Jim again rotated Blair forward, rubbing his back as the smaller man spit out phlegm and bile. Then, Blair's heaves got more frantic. "Gotta - get - it - out - of - me..."

"Blair - Blair, were you poisoned? Did they give you anything?"

Blair shook his head. "I just - don't want to choke again."

Jim pulled Blair back again, despite his heaves. "Just rest, Buddy. You're not going to choke again. Trust me."

Blair nodded and concentrated now on ignoring the impulse to try to keep emptying his stomach. "Sorry, man," he said.

"Sorry?"

"For being such a wreck. It was that damn sock. I woulda done fine..." Another wave of dizziness hit, and he broke off with a gasp.

"Easy, Chief," said Jim. "You're okay. I've got you."

Simon reappeared, handing down a bottle of water, a beach towel, and a Jags sweatshirt. "How's he doing?"

"Not sure," said Jim. "Blair, you with us?"

"Not sure I want to be," said Blair.

"That's the spirit," said Simon, again ducking out of the small room.

Jim opened the bottle and pressed Blair's right hand around it. "Small sips," he advised.

Instead, Blair took a large mouthful, swirled it around, and spit onto the floor. He then drank a little, Jim supporting his hand.

"Are you hurt anywhere? Does your head hurt?" Jim asked.

"No, I'm fine... I didn't really ever get a chance to fight."

Sensing that Blair was coming back to himself, Jim pulled back slightly. "You wanna get that shirt off?"

"Sure..." Blair let Jim help him take off his flannel shirt and undershirt, which were much the worse for wear. Jim then wet a corner of the beach towel, and let Blair wipe his face before deciding he could do the job more efficiently and reclaiming the towel and the task. This bit of Ellisonness struck Blair as hilarious, and he chuckled a bit as Jim did his best to get the worst of the mess off of him, then helped him put on the sweatshirt Simon had provided.

Jim decided, for the moment, to take Blair's change in mood as a good sign, absent other options.

A paramedic now entered the closet. "Heya, Blair, how's it going?"

Blair looked up through still-blurry eyes. Sheesh, it had to be someone he knew, right? Leaning against Jim, sitting amid his own vomit, pretty much guaranteed it. "Hey yourself, Chuck."

"I think we're okay here," said Jim. "Give us five?"

"Thanks, Jim," said Blair. He sighed deeply.

"You sure you're not hurt anywhere," asked Jim, looking like he wanted to start playing EMT, despite having just sent the paramedic away.

"Nothing but my pride, man," said Blair.

"Blair, I'm only going to say this once," said Jim. "I'm not sure how long you were down here, but I'm damn proud that you coped as well as you did, for as long as you did."

"You'd have done better," said Blair, realizing he sounded pathetic.

"Chief, I've never had to spend hours in the dark bound and gagged like you were. I've never had my own personal David Lash, or had someone sic spiders on me, for that matter. This type of thing isn't something anyone besides you ever has to prepare for."

"Gee, that makes me feel so much better," said Blair.

"So - ready to get out of here?"

"Yeah."

"I've already made it up to you, though," said Jim.

"Huh?"

"I kept the Volvo from getting ticketed. You really should put more quarters in your meters, just in case."

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: for the sideburns Boss Man found distracting, see pics from "Fool Me Twice" in Starfox's Gallery, e.g. http://www.wolfpanther.com/images/fool/FoolMe047.jpg.
> 
> I'm a bit sorry Blair seems so ineffectual in this story. I'm working on one in which he saves human civilization, which I hope will balance things out.


End file.
